Selective Anhedonia
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Written for the Dreamwidth comm areyougame. Prompt request was, "Any character: asexuality - his lack of interest isn't anything personal, it just... is." Unnamed character, though I did have one in mind. Attempted second person narrative.


**Selective Anhedonia**

When you're young, the jokes about masturbation and hookers don't seem so bad because you can play it off and laugh and flip your cigarette along nimble fingers that all the others assume are deftly attuned to skillful fucking and just say, _Yeah,_ because you know what you project and it's pretty clear that most of them want to fuck you, men and women. But after a few years, a lot of them disappear, and the ones who stay have enough sense to keep away because killing comes more naturally to you than jerking off by yourself. You wonder if they can sense it, that you're abnormal; you wonder if pheromones are real and if all those fake perfumes that the street vendors sell in Sector 3 are telling the truth when they say, _Attract a mate the natural way_, and you hope that it isn't because you'd be the silent one without a smell.

There's something about your mouth that people love. You welcome it, you draw them in, watching them like staring at the ceiling late at night and counting cracks out to distract yourself from the fact that the fingers running through your hair are your own and you wish you felt something and you wish, somewhere pathetic, somewhere desperate, that they belonged to someone that you _wanted._

The only time you try, you're happy that it's a hooker who you got drunk with and felt something for, if only for that moment, in your ecstatic blurry-eyed view of the world; thought, _Yeah, this is it, I've just been waiting for a moment where my cock could actually get hard, through all the wrong ones and the ugly ones and the desperate ones_. Because you're not desperate; you're just selective. And when you get into the hotel room and she looks at you with those eyes that are as sad as the ones you've looked into countless times in the mirror, you want to fuck her, just to prove that you can, just to prove that you're capable, and instead you sit together and smoke cigarettes and sometimes, you wonder what it would be like to be one of those prissy fucks from halfway across the Planet, come to the big city of Midgar for school, all of them about your age, all of them with complex philosophical reasons for not fucking. But do. Regardless.

You blame it on her; you make her cry. You tell her that her tits are too saggy and her cunt is too loose and _how in the fuck am I supposed to fuck that what are you thinking not even for free_and even then she, cries. A seasoned whore. You wonder if you should pat yourself on the back or blow your own fucking brains out, because even though you kill people for a living, you have never considered yourself a sadistic fuck. You've never considered yourself a good fuck either, because you don't fuck at all. In fact, sometimes, you wonder, if you should even say the word "fuck," because you know, deep down, that it's a joke, coming out of your mouth, your fascinating mouth, that doesn't care about cock or pussy, even though you wish you did.

And you wonder if it's just you; if it's just you alone, pretending that you fuck all the time, that you fuck every night, that you pay for it and don't pay for it, and in those times when your sense of humor kicks in and you actually laugh, that maybe other people should be paying you for it. Everyone believes you except the ones who have propositioned; and even those ones, they know to shut up, because you'll fucking kill them. You never said it, but they assume. And who are you to interrupt a convenient assumption that lets you live a little easier?

When someone important approaches you, wants your cock and your mouth and your hair and your fingers for all the right reasons, all the reasons you thought were a joke, all the reasons you've ever been afraid of but wondered if they would make a difference...

You let the bites come, and the kisses, and the tangling fingers, and you don't come. And he looks at you. And you have no excuses.

And you think you hear, somewhere, later, _His lack of interest isn't anything personal, it just... is._


End file.
